


Moonlight Serenade

by wellclutchmypearls



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Love, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Slow Build, Stolen Moments, True Love, World War II, brief mentions of typical war violence, honestly how is this a rare pair?, love was in gibson's eyes from the minute they freaking met
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-26 21:03:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12066945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellclutchmypearls/pseuds/wellclutchmypearls
Summary: Tommy, Alex, and Gibson, along with thousands of other soldiers, wait at Dunkirk for help that never seems to come. While the other sleep on the beach one night, Tommy secretly slips away to the dunes to release some of the building desperation and terror inside him.But Gibson notices his absence and follows to find & comfort him...





	Moonlight Serenade

**Author's Note:**

> Gibson and Tommy deserve all the happiness in the world, so this is my personal version of what happened during the time on shore between the scenes of the battleship and the dutch boat.

Tommy had always heard that France was warmer and lovelier than England, especially in summer. But here at Dunkirk, where the chilly mistrals swept over the Channel and frothed up the sea and sand at the water's edge into yellowing foam, he couldn't imagine a less hospitable place. 

The enemy was invisible, but they were there, just the same. Those ever-present faceless predators lurking somewhere within the cold waters beyond in their U-boats...on land where they surged forward on foot and in rolling tanks to fight against the sandbagged barricades held up by French soldiers...and in the air where crescendoing banshee screams of the Stuka sirens alerted the men on the beach as winged doom approached in flight. 

Tommy, along with the hundreds of thousands of soldiers trapped there, could only wait, pining hopelessly for his family while listening to the repetitive rimshot blasts of battle farther inland and the occasional thunder of bombs being dropped down the coast.

 _I want to go home,_ Tommy thought over and over. _Take me home. Someone please take me home._

Not long ago, all he wanted to do was get out on his own in the real world. But that was before the war. Before Tommy had to sign up for conscription. Now, with a sea between him and all he held dear, the almost suffocating pain of separation weighed hard on his chest. He missed his family and their modest little Surrey home more than he ever thought possible.

He mentally escaped by remembering the simplest pleasures that he hadn't fully appreciated before he was shipped off to France to fight: a pint at the Royal, his mum's lemon biscuits, hot baths, listening and laughing to the crackling warmth of Band Waggon on the wireless with his family, and perhaps most of all, the familiar, comfortable haven of his boyhood bed.

Behind those answerless desires in the back of his mind were the tangled memories of the past few weeks. Mental images of boys just like him with their heads blown off, their wet innards spilling from open wounds. Grown men crying for their mothers as they lay dying. And he kept reliving the last night over and over every time he closed his eyes even when he tried to force his mind somewhere else. He wondered if he'd ever be able to forget what the muffled screams of men dying underwater sounded like after the explosion and the sinister rush and roar of the sea spewing inside the ship. Those panicky muted throttles, the collective final breaths beside him, above him, all around him in the inky murk as the many hundreds — soldiers, nurses, and officers — all flailed together helplessly. 

He only escaped by some kind of miracle. Someone mercifully opened the sealed battleship door, and just as he had given up all hope, the glow from the fire outside caught his eye — a light at the end of the tunnel. The pounding pressure in his head and inside his lungs reminded him that he was still alive and desperate for air, and his instincts pulled him forward toward the opening above. 

After that lucky escape, he'd been forced back to shore with two other boys who'd become his fast companions only hours earlier. There was Alex, a good-looking, sharp-faced lad from Manchester who Tommy guessed would have better demonstrated an equally sharp wit were they not all so exhausted. 

And then there was Gibson, beautiful and silent. There was something mysterious about him, almost otherworldly, but he was kind even if he was unusually quiet. Tommy actually only knew his name because he'd spied it on the dog-tags strung round the young man's slender sun-tanned neck while the others slept on the beach that morning. " _Gibson, B."_ He distracted himself for a good long while, imagining what the "B" might stand for. 

All he knew for sure was that Gibson had proven himself to be a good man after saving his and Alex's lives in the water.

Alex eyed Gibson with some suspicion, but Tommy made excuses for him, speculating that he was shellshocked or he might've lost his voice somehow. The truth was that Tommy felt an unspoken bond with Gibson ever since their first meeting. Gibson had helped him, and in turn, Tommy knew he would defend him without question or hesitation.

Anyway, he argued to Alex, who among them were up for talking much after all they'd seen and done? What was there to speak of, aside from memories of home? And that hurt far too much to keep up for long. 

So Alex fell silent again, and the three boys huddled in wait on the shore, watching the water whip into waves as thick grey clouds blew in from the north to proffer some cover and put a stop to the overhead bombings for a while.

Some men loaded up rowboats and tried to get past the choppy waves without much luck, overturning again and again until surrendering. One boat packed with at least a dozen men made it out, but everyone else back on shore knew, deep down, that in a small craft like that, powered only by half-starved men and a couple of rickety oars, they would probably never make it the full distance across the Channel's unforgivingly strong currents. 

The three boys stuck together and kept a look-out for any means of escape until the sun went down. Another day come and gone. Another day alive, beyond all the odds stacked against the men still left on the beach. Rumors spread that some boats from home might be coming, but it sounded too good to be true. He and Gibson both knew what that Naval officer had said. Not everyone was going to be rescued.

If hell existed, Tommy had become convinced that it wasn't separate from the earth but in fact here, now, at Dunkirk. The black of night was only interrupted by scattered incandescent blazes of orange fire. Farther down the coast, the helpless, haunting moans of a few of the wounded soldiers rose in a sort of sick harmony to accompany one boy's shrieking until Tommy thought it might drive him mad. 

Alex, in particular, could barely handle the noise. He sat cross-legged in the sand and rubbed the flats of his palms against his ears, muttering, "Someone end it already. Just end it for the poor sod." 

Finally, sometime in the middle of the night, the soldier's wails faded into nothingness...another life among thousands snuffed out without comfort or care. Even mute Gibson took in a shaky sort of relieved breath when the boy’s suffering was over.

The other two tried their best to sleep after that, but Tommy'd had all the nightmares he could handle. The more he thought about all he'd managed to live through while so many others had cruelly perished, the bigger the knot in his throat swelled. He thought he knew what war was once. The newsreels at the picture show always made it seem so much more adventurous and glamorous than it really felt. It was just survival. Kill or be killed. And Tommy couldn't let himself forget all he had done. All he'd seen. 

When the tears sprang to his eyes, dehydrated as he was, he forced himself up to his booted, blistered feet. 

Gibson, quiet as a sculpture in the sand, stirred from where he lay to watch him go. 

Tommy mustered all his remaining strength to keep it together until he stumbled behind one of the dunes a good distance away from his sleeping companions. After scouting to make sure no one else was around, he dropped hard to his knees, digging his fingers into the sand, scabbed knuckles deep, as if grabbing onto the earth itself was all that kept him from being flung into the cloud-obscured starry void at his back.

"Please," he shakily sobbed, a strangled, half-whispered plea to no one. "Please. I want to go home."

He didn't hear the hushed footfalls in the sand until Gibson was right next to him. His first instinct was to stand and run, but he felt too weak now to do anything more than fall back on his rump and bury his face between his knees in shame. From the day he'd been drafted into service until now, months had gone by without Tommy ever showing the depth of his true emotion. But tonight, life had finally wrung it out of him like a rag, and Gibson had witnessed that weakness.

He probably thought Tommy was nothing but a silly, frightened little kid. Tommy bit his bottom lip and tried to think of what he should say or do. He almost wanted to shoo his friend off so he could finish his cry in private and have done with it, but he ended up blurting out, "Sorry!," although he didn't know why apologizing was something he felt he ought to do. "Er, sorry," he repeated, sniffling and wiping his salt-sticky sleeve over his freckled cheeks.

But he could see Gibson didn't seem to be judging him. He just stood there, stoic and quiet, looking like an angel in army green. Then he knelt down in the sand, right next to Tommy, and reached over to pat his back a few times in a friendly gesture. 

Tommy felt Gibson's hand linger, hovering as if he wasn't sure whether to pull back. Then tentatively, gently, his hand dropped back down to rest between Tommy's shoulders. It was an action as foreign as it was strangely familiar.

He wiped the back of his hand against his cheeks again and peered over at the quiet man next to him. From their first meeting on the beach — near a dune much like this one — he sensed something different about the sensitive, voiceless Gibson, whose every emotion was conveyed through his expressive face and eyes — those mist green eyes that so resembled the colour of Surrey's sheep-strewn pastures on a foggy day…the colour of home. 

When Gibson saw how badly Tommy was trembling, he wasted no time in removing his jacket and draping it over the boy's shoulders. Tommy thanked him quietly and grasped at the lapels of the jacket, eager to soak in his friend's body heat left within the woolen weave. It was close to what he imagined it might feel like to have Gibson hold him, but he didn't dare dwell on that idea. He tried to ignore the wanting hollow inside and focused instead on the delicate hand that had returned to rub his back reassuringly. His touch, even through layers of clothes, spread a pleasant sort of warmth that chased the night-chilled numbness away.

Tommy couldn't have been more grateful for Gibson in that moment. It seemed so obvious to him now how every interaction with him was more meaningful without so much as a single word than a thousand conversations with some of his best mates back home. That knowledge, along with the feeling of Gibson's hand stroking his back, broke the dam inside him, and his second wave of crying began, try as he might to stop it. 

When he looked up at one point, he almost felt a sense of relief when he saw that not even Gibson held his sorrows back. A few thick tears had dropped from his shadow-rimmed eyes, leaving a clear trail behind as they trickled over his dirtied, sun-tanned face and into the hollows beneath his cheekbones.

Instantly, Tommy felt compelled to return kindness to this stranger whom he'd come to think of as his friend, and he wondered what might be acceptable. He'd never really hugged another man aside from family, and physical contact between boys wasn't done, unless in sport or fighting. Gibson didn't seem to think anything of expressing his sympathy like this, but Tommy knew what the others would think if they saw. They would say it was wrong, wouldn't they?

Long ago, he had learned to stifle the feelings that sometimes developed for other boys. He knew it was considered wicked, but he never understood why, when it came so naturally to him. He heard the names people like him were called, saw how anyone different was ostracized and mocked. So he concealed his shameful truth all his young life. 

But under the cover of night, given the unique situation in which they found themselves, he figured it wouldn't be a sin to comfort Gibson in return.

Sniffling, Tommy timidly reached across the short distance between them to take Gibson's free hand. Almost as soon as their fingers began to touch, the moment was interrupted by voices, a couple of fellow British soldiers walking somewhere not too far away on the beach. Instantly, Gibson broke their connection and jolted upright to stand.

Tommy tried to still the beating of his heart and act nonchalant as he rubbed his palms against his pants to shake off the clinging bits of sand. But inside he was frightened and embarrassed. Gibson knew now. He had felt Tommy's hand reaching for his. He'd seen him for what he truly was. Any minute, Gibson would probably snatch his jacket back and stomp off into the night. Surely he'd want to go join the other men instead of wasting any more time on a scrawny little poof like Tommy, he told himself.

But Gibson wasn't going anywhere. He held a finger to his lips to quiet Tommy, and his eyes stayed sharp as he scanned around and listened until the other men had gone. Once he was satisfied they were alone again, he looked back down at Tommy, and his expression held such an unexpected tenderness that Tommy held his breath. 

To Tommy’s further surprise, the lad sat down in the sand beside him and sidled nearer to take his hand again. A none-too-subtle thrill swelled inside him when their eyes met and Gibson’s fingers intertwined with his. 

Tommy wasn't sure how much time passed...seconds? Minutes? Then somewhere in town, far beyond the dunes, there was a sudden shocking blast. The noise startled them both from their shared gaze. Tommy let go of Gibson's hand, lurched forward toward his knees, then covered his head, as if the Jerrys were right behind them. The explosion was met with a horrifying cratering sound and a chorus of screams. A building somewhere near the barricades had collapsed from the artillery fire.

He was utterly terrified. And tired...so incredibly tired. Tired of the stench of death, the constant, unwavering threat of his own mortality, the pain and suffering all around him. There was no respite. No way out.

Then he felt the reassuring weight of Gibson's arm around him, protective and comforting all at once. Weak and ready to surrender, Tommy limply dropped his head onto Gibson's shoulder. He didn't protest when Gibson readjusted his legs to hold him closer. He simply allowed himself to be held in the folded security of those slim but sturdy arms. Completely undone, Tommy almost desperately held on to him, his hands clutching tight to his shirt as if it were the roped lifeline that Gibson had extended for Tommy to hold, white-knuckled, all the way to shore behind the rowboat the night before when he'd saved his and Alex's lives.

"I want to go home," he breathed tearfully into Gibson’s neck. "Please, I want to go home." He knew it was a foolish thing to say. Everyone wanted the war to be over. Everyone wanted to be safe at their own homes again. But Gibson didn't act like he thought what he said was ridiculous in any way. 

“Shhh,” was his only response. It was an affectionate gesture, not meant to shut Tommy up at all but offered in a way almost like a mother attempting to soothe a frightened child. “Shh-sh-sh-shh.” 

Tommy swallowed back the lump in his throat and tried to focus on anything except for the way his belly leapt when Gibson's stubbled jaw skimmed against his forehead. He couldn't hold back the quiet tears that fell and wetted his companion's shirt, and he pressed his wind-chilled face deeper against the heat of Gibson's throat. For the first time since he'd set foot on French soil, he felt safe — if only for a moment.

Gibson should've smelled no different from Tommy after days gone by without bathing, but somehow the same odors of wind, sea salt, and smoke were more comforting in the inherent sweetness locked inside his sweat-tinged skin. He wondered what Gibson's normal scent was like and how he looked when he was fresh and clean-shaven and dressed in his normal clothes. He wondered what his voice would sound like if he ever spoke. Was it deep and strong, the kind of voice like his grandfather's that would pleasantly rumble inside his chest? Or maybe it was soft and high, melodic like a song? And he wondered what Gibson might be thinking of him as they held one another so closely now.

Tommy might have felt ashamed if anyone else could see, but thankfully, no one stumbled upon them and broke the magic of this moment shared between two frightened, big-hearted, battle-worn boys who clung to one another in the low grass-topped dunes. It was the most intimate experience of his life. Maybe it was nothing so dashing or romantic as what he'd seen Hollywood stars on the silver screen act out with their closed-lipped kisses and heart-baring monologues, but to Tommy, it was simply _everything_. 

Being wrapped in Gibson's arms, drinking his scent in, felt simultaneously eternal and achingly short-lived. He dreaded every coming second after the comfort of the last, afraid each moment would be the one in which their connection would end, and the chasm of loneliness would reappear inside him and between them. 

As anticipated, he felt Gibson pull back once more after an unknowable length of time, and although it hurt deeply to let him go, like a terrible severing inside him, he didn't protest. Now that he'd been properly pacified, he supposed they both ought to act like the grown men they were and return to Alex where they left him sleeping on the beach.

The fearsome crackle of gunfire miles inland didn't deter him from watching Gibson as he scanned around them again, wary of any intrusion. Then he turned back to Tommy once more, and his pink lips parted with a soft click of his tongue against his palate, as if he meant to speak for the first time. Tommy waited expectantly, but then Gibson only sighed, almost as if he were disappointed with himself, and he pressed the back of his fingers to his mouth to hush his own words. Pensively, he rubbed his knuckles over the shadow of his mustache sprouting above the bow of his lovely mouth.

When their eyes met again, his hand dropped to his lap, and he audibly exhaled, a sound similar to but far more pleasant than the waves washing against the nearby shore. Tommy was positive now that that one single breath carried with it an unspoken desire for more. He knew, because he felt it too. 

Returning the intensity of their renewed gaze, Tommy tried to breathe slower and steadier than his quickening pulse seemed to want to allow when Gibson reached up and tenderly cupped a hand against Tommy's neck. He was sure his heart would beat out of his chest from the thrill of it. 

Gibson's lithe fingers twisted along the tiny silver chain there, tracing the length of Tommy's necklace and teasing his virginal skin beneath it. The crotch of his pants involuntarily but pleasantly tightened as Gibson dipped his fingers inside the collar of his button-up shirt near the base of his throat to retrieve his identification tags, which slid over his heating skin and out the top of his shirt into Gibson's ready palm. Then he leaned forward to read what was stamped there in the metal, so close that Tommy figured he could've counted his individual black lashes.

He knew what Gibson found there: _"Blythe, T."_ It was nothing extraordinary to behold, a simple enough surname, and yet Gibson lingered, like he was memorizing every letter of his name, every number of his ID, as if he wanted to burn it into his brain. Then he tucked the tags back from where he'd plucked them, and the warmth from his hands still trapped in the metal radiated against Tommy's chest.

Gibson's face was half-shadowed, half-lit by the fires beyond the dunes as well as the silvery glow of the waning crescent moon behind the clouds. When they looked at one another this time, he skimmed the surprisingly soft fingertips of his free hand along Tommy's mostly hairless jawline, and then, with a subtle but almost playful smile, he tapped the pad of one finger against the small brown mole at the right side of his chin. 

Tommy had never expected to see that smile. Certainly not here. Not in the midst of war. And he had never imagined that someone so beautiful could ever take a second glance at him, an awkward skinny boy still growing into his body at 20. But still, Gibson was here. With him. And he was looking at him as if…

 _Can this be happening?_ , he asked himself. Or had he really died back there in the belly of the battleship, and this was some heavenly moment's reprieve from purgatory? But this certainly seemed like real life, however unfathomable.

Gibson's smile faded nearly as quickly as it appeared when the connection between their eyes grew more intense, and Tommy stayed motionless, his lips parted, watching as Gibson haltingly closed the distance between them. 

Tommy closed his eyes and gulped back a nervous swallow, unsure of what to expect. Then their foreheads pressed together, innocent and warm. It was the simplest of contact, skin to skin, almost nose to nose.

Every second mattered, and they both knew it. Tommy swore to himself that if he were to die in that very moment, this feeling would be enough. But nothing more happened, just the oceanic sounds of their shared soft breaths coming and going a little faster, in and out,  shaky and wanting, washing over one other. When Tommy opened his eyes, he saw Gibson's green there, staring back at him beneath heavy olive lids.

Gibson moved closer, breaking contact between their foreheads to dip ever so slightly toward the collar of his shirt. The breath Tommy pulled in was a sudden jerky, staccato sound. He shivered when he felt the delicious scuffing of Gibson's stubbled jawline sweep against him and the heat of his breath on the exposed skin of his throat. Then without warning, the boy dipped lightly forward to brush his ribbon-soft lips over the sensitive bulge of his Adam's apple. Almost as quickly as the deed was done, he drew back up to face Tommy, as if he had to find out what the verdict of his "crime" would be. 

Tommy wasn't sure whether what Gibson had done could be called a true kiss, and yet the sense memory on his tender flesh still tingled, telling him that it was so. Gibson's green eyes conveyed it as well in the way he peered back up at Tommy. It was everything he needed to know to relax into what was happening — to find that Gibson was just as frightened of what he had dared to do but also, more importantly, that he wanted whatever this was just as much as Tommy did. In fact, Tommy had wanted this, without consciously admitting it to himself, ever since he saw that mysterious young man on the beach the day they met, ever since their hands brushed against each other when Gibson passed him the canteen of water. 

His new thirst was not yet quenched, and he gave approval the only way he knew how — a quick nod, the slightest raise of his thick brows. Satisfied by the consent in Tommy's dazed expression, Gibson once more ducked down and purposefully planted his mouth against Tommy's neck again, and Tommy's near-empty belly felt full with a new sensation he'd never fully known before. This kind of desire was altogether different from muffled nights alone in bed back home when he had to scratch that common youthful itch. This was something far greater, far deeper. 

The kisses continued, one by one, feather-soft and delicate at first, then growing a bit more eager. He felt like he was ascending into the air when Gibson's moist tongue tasted the salt of his skin. He barely nipped here and there as he travelled upward in a trail back toward Tommy's face. 

Tommy felt his body responding and with Gibson eliciting every goosebump, every chill, he felt no guilt now. It was an escape from every terrible thing in the world. A heaven in the midst of hell. He leaned into it, eager and bliss-ridden, responding almost like his mum's scruffy old tom cat back home would when his chin was scratched just right. The feeling of Gibson’s mouth on him was somehow a thousand times better than a single short moment of ecstasy brought by his own hand. 

At one point, he swore he heard Gibson murmur something, but the words were lost against Tommy's skin, tickling as they disappeared into the distant whisper of the waves, and Tommy quickly forgot all about it when Gibson's lips worked more closely to his own. He hadn't ever kissed another person in his life, not at school, not even on a dare, but he allowed the more knowledgeable man to lead the way. 

Without need for direction or words, two like souls, their mouths finally found their way to one another and pressed together...beautifully...slowly...as if they had all the time in the world instead of the urgency one might expect of two soldiers who couldn't know whether they'd even survive the hour or the night. The pleasure rising in Tommy's gut nearly jolted him forward, and he followed his instinct to wrap his arms around Gibson. As they kissed, he tangled his sore fingers from one hand into the young man's cropped black curls and let the other hand rest at the small of his back. 

Gentle as can be, the tip of Gibson's tongue cautiously skimmed over Tommy's lips after a few minutes, and curious for more of this peculiar new sensation, Tommy parted his mouth to receive it. Once again, at the very touch of their tongues together, he felt himself hardening, and while a part of him wondered if he should be embarrassed of it, the rest of him didn't care at all. He guessed he might have to seek relief from his own hand later or risk the ache of unfulfilled urgency. He hadn't bothered with that in months. Ever since he'd been dumped into war, barely ready for what was to come, he hadn't had even the slightest desire for it. 

Not until now. Not until Gibson. 

Any pain would be worth this, he decided. Their physical connection was perfect, and Tommy couldn't imagine anyone in the world feeling more bliss with another body than him, right here, right now — even with death in uniform practically knocking at their door. Every fear escaped his mind when Gibson's mouth was on his.

Tommy let him take complete control, and he allowed himself to fall back underneath his partner against the shallow slope of the sandy dune. Gibson paused after a moment and pulled back again, and Tommy, lost without his touch, opened his eyes to find him. His companion was looking right at him in the low light. Not just looking. Admiring.

Together, they fell still, steadying the hushed rise and fall of their breath, until once more, Gibson traced his fingers along the sharp curve of Tommy's jawline. He looked as if he desperately wanted to say something more — as if he had a world of words inside him, aching to be released. 

Tommy could scarcely believe anyone could look at him the way Gibson did, but it was more than enough to prompt him to jut his chin upward, wrap his arms around Gibson's neck, and gently pull him back down on top of him. He would let him translate those unspoken words into the poetry of their kisses. 

Gibson was entirely undone at that, and he let out the sweetest, softest moan against Tommy's thin, seeking lips as their bodies surged more urgently together. It was like a song, that sound — one of the first he'd heard Gibson ever make. It was a relief from every atrocity in the world for as long as Gibson would hold him and kiss him and never let him go.  

Being in his arms was the purest comfort Tommy had ever known, but even after a while, clothed embraces alone could not sate them. Their kisses grew deeper, seeking more, and Tommy held his breath when Gibson's fingers began to work away at the buttons of his shirt. 

Tommy was terrified and excited at the same time. He wanted Gibson more than he'd ever wanted anything, but the thought kept coming over and over in his mind: why did it have to be _here_? Why did they have to meet now — with only secret stolen kisses on foreign soil and an enemy army surging forward to end them.

When Gibson's lips fluttered against his before dropping down to his chest, all those thoughts disappeared. He ran a hand through Gibson's oily black curls while the boy eagerly kissed the exposed skin just three buttons down, and he realized that the words he'd never expected were there inside him, ready to burst out. Not just in his mind and on his tongue, but seeping from every pore when Gibson looked back up at him.

_I'm in love with you. I don't know how or why, but…I love you._

He halfway wondered if the other young man could hear his thoughts, because without hesitation, he closed the distance between their mouths with new hunger. 

And then…voices. Footsteps. The other men on the beach were stirring. Dawn was breaking on the eastern horizon. 

Breathing heavily, they broke apart. There was an expression on Gibson's face as he pulled back, stood up, and readjusted his pants — one that spoke volumes of desire, of sadness, of fear. 

 _Please don't let this be the end,_ Tommy thought as he worked to quickly fasten the few buttons Gibson had managed to undo before the world around them began spinning again, and the war, the struggle to survive, went right back into motion. It had never actually stopped, not really.

Gibson held out a hand to help Tommy up, and then he brushed off the sand that had collected on his backside. When Tommy turned to face him, there was that smile again — soft, subtle...concealing so much within. Tommy tried his best to muster a smile for him too, but reality had set back in, and he was scared. 

As they emerged from the dunes, Alex spotted them and called out for them, and they knew for certain that their quiet moment together was truly over. Side by side, they turned forward to face whatever lay ahead and began walking back toward the shore, silent and unsure of what would come next. But Gibson paused one more time, and they took one more long look together, desperately taking in every bit of each other's faces. Tommy didn't want to forget this moment. He didn't want to lose any part of how handsome Gibson looked with the low grey light of dawn on his chiseled face, and the soft fog rolling in from the Channel all around them. If they made it out of this alive, if they made it back to the shores of England, he swore he would kiss those lips again, and next time, he wouldn't care who saw it. He would drink him in and give him everything. 

Neither of them were willing to let go of what they had shared in secret on Dunkirk beach. But now the spell had been broken. 

When they neared Alex, he mouthed off, "Where the hell have you two been? I thought you scarpered off without me!"

The day wore on just like the day before: watching, sitting, and waiting. The clouds had mostly cleared, but that just meant better sighting opportunities for the Luftwaffe to bomb the beach. The same horrors surrounded them: the gunfire and battle in the distance, the sounds of the dying. The RAF were nowhere to be seen, and there were no civilian boats on the horizon as promised. Alex and Tommy agreed that the rumors of boats coming from home must have been bullshit, just something someone made up to make themselves feel better. Still, they kept their eyes out for any opportunity for escape.

Gibson and Tommy stayed near one another throughout the day, practically inseparable. Occasionally, they stole quiet, longing glances when Alex wasn't paying attention, and other times, they dared to let their fingers brush against each other in the sand. Even the slightest touch would suffice when Tommy couldn't have those lips on his again. 

For lunch, the three starving boys feasted on a can of peaches which Alex knifed open enough for them to eagerly suck the juices out like mother's milk from the jagged tin mouth. 

Later that afternoon, they watched in numb horror as a soldier, an older man with graying hair and a mustache that had seen better days, walked directly into the sea. Alex swore to Tommy that he heard him say that if Britain wouldn't come for them, then, by God, he would just go to Britain on foot. That is exactly what he did, striding purposefully into the waves after dropping his overcoat and the last of his army-issued belongings, his canteen, pack, and rifle, behind him in the sand. No one budged to stop him, nor did anyone run out to rescue him when he disappeared beneath the waves. But every man present felt the weight of what they were witnessing.

Hope was fading fast. Any opportunity to get away had to be taken. Not long after, Alex spotted a group of soldiers heading west along the beach. They pointed to a blue speck of a boat down the coast, stating that they were going to load up in it and wait for the tide to come in. Even though it was beyond the safety of the perimeter, Alex wasted no time in joining them. Tommy and Gibson were less certain, and they sought an answer wordlessly from one another. 

"Don't leave me," Tommy whispered impulsively to the other boy as the group surged ahead, marching quickly to claim the boat for themselves before anyone else had a chance.

Gibson, of course, said nothing more in return, but the answer was there inside his mist green eyes. _Whatever you do, wherever you go, that's what I'll do. That's where I'll be._

And so together, the boys set off behind the others, bringing up the rear, and hoping beyond hope that this would be their ticket away from this dreadful place once and for all.

The war, of course, was far from over. Tommy would've been a fool to let himself think that getting away from Dunkirk would make an end of it. But with Gibson at his side, as their boots flattened near-identical prints in the wet sand behind them only to disappear in the surf moments later, he really believed they had a chance to make it home now as they neared the beached blue trawler.

Perhaps Gibson would find his voice again someday — somewhere far away from the terror of this war. And maybe Tommy would show him his hometown, and Gibson would show him his. Maybe they would take a walk in the pastures behind his house some warm summer evening, counting stars and sharing their deepest secrets. And when they joined together again, all hands and lips and breath and heated skin, shakily undressing each other for the first time, he knew he would finally be able to whisper Gibson's full name aloud when he told him that he loved him, and he would hear his own name in return on Gibson's sweet, seeking tongue.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure if I'll continue this fic or just leave it as a beautiful/bittersweet sort of one-chapter thing, but for now, I'm leaving it possibly open for future chapters depending on reception and what you guys think! I just love Gibson and Tommy so much, and I needed for them to be able to have this moment. I hope you loved it!!
> 
> Feel free to follow me at the same user name on [my tumblr. ](https://wellclutchmypearls.tumblr.com)
> 
> "Moonlight Serenade" title comes from a romantic slow-dance big band songs of the 40s by Glenn Miller. Not sure why i chose that, just felt right. Check it out. Otherwise, I've been listening to a lot of the "Atonement" soundtrack to build all the angsty feelings about my boys while I write. Worth a listen -- especially "Elegy for Dunkirk," "Come Back," "Cottage by the Beach," and "Denouement."


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